Hanging Curve (22 page)

“Yes, but they won’t. The first priority is to rebuild Cubs Park—immediately. We cannot allow the Klan to succeed; what they destroy, we will restore.”

“Do you know when the rebuilding is gonna start?”

“Tomorrow morning. The Cubs are unable to afford contractors, but donations of lumber and supplies have been coming in, and volunteers will start construction tomorrow.”

“I’m pretty handy with a saw and hammer,” I said. Years ago, I’d worked and played ball for a number of industries, including a furniture manufacturer and a shipyard. “Of course, I’m not sure if they’ll want a white guy helping, considering what happened.”

Aubury said, “We need hands. It doesn’t matter what color they are.”

S
ince Sunday was my last day in town before a road trip to Cleveland, I had originally intended to idle it away with Margie on pursuits that didn’t involve construction tools. She agreed that helping to rebuild Cubs Park was a better idea, though. And we would still get to spend the day together, because she insisted on coming along.

Early in the morning, the two of us were again on a trolley crossing Eads Bridge, taking the same route that we’d taken on our way to the Elcars’ game in April. This time, we avoided looking at the devastated section of downtown East St. Louis when we passed by.

Once we reached Cubs Park, however, there was no way to miss seeing the destruction there. The two-story building that had housed the club’s offices was gone, reduced to scattered piles of ashes, out of which jutted some charred beams and plumbing fixtures. Even less remained of the wooden bleachers. A burnt smell lingered, and ashes were kicked up by sporadic breezes.

Dozens of volunteers were already gathered near the spot where the park entrance used to be. As Margie and I joined them, I saw that Franklin Aubury was right about all helping hands being welcome. During the game in April, there had been strict separation of the races. Today, a surprising number of white men, as well as a few women, both black and white, were joining together for the rebuilding effort.

Several of the Cubs’ players were present, including their catcher, Denver Jones, who appeared to be in charge.

I approached the big, moon-faced catcher, and introduced myself. “Thought you might be able to use a couple workers,” I said.

“Glad to have you.” With a hint of a smile, he added, “Not going by ‘Welch’ anymore?”

“No, that ‘Welch’ guy couldn’t hit for beans. I do a whole lot better as Rawlings.”

A laugh rumbled from deep within Jones’s belly. “Well, let’s see how you do with a saw and hammer.”

I told him Margie wanted to help, too, and asked what we should do.

“First we’re gonna sort out what all needs to be done. Waitin’ for a couple of carpenters to come by and give us their advice.”

I looked around at all the people who’d gathered to help rebuild this baseball park, and wondered if any had thought to help Jones build a new house. I hadn’t, and I felt bad about that. “I’m sorry about you losing your home,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I didn’t lose my home, just a building. My family’s together, and that’s ‘home.’ And we’ll be movin’ into a new house soon.”

Jones then excused himself to organize some cleanup squads that began raking up ashes and cinders. Margie helped with that task, while I joined some men in carting away the burnt beams.

I was trying to pry a charred four-by-four out of the rubble when Karl Landfors showed up. “Would you care for some assistance with that?” he asked.

It took a moment before I could answer yes. Karl’s appearance had me stunned. He was dressed completely out of character, in dungarees, a flannel shirt, and a cloth cap tilted at a careless angle. The clothes looked stiff and new; I had the feeling he’d bought them specifically for today’s labor.

As we tugged at the wood, Karl told me between grunts that Aubury had wanted to come but was instead working on getting more funds for building materials.

After most of the large pieces of rubble were cleared away, a couple of trucks arrived with fresh lumber, wire fencing, nails, and paint. Denver Jones and a contingent of men strolled around the park, trying to determine what to do first.

I joined them in surveying the site. The building and bleachers obviously needed to be completely rebuilt, but it was less clear what to do about the fencing. The wire fences in front of the bleachers had been scorched, but were still intact; Jones decided a coat of paint was all they needed.

The backstop, from which Slip Crawford had been lynched, triggered some discussion. The wire mesh had been burned through in spots, but the frame was still intact and standing. While the other men debated whether to replace all or part of it, I imagined the pitcher hanging there. I was happy when they decided to tear it all down, to get rid of the gallows from which Crawford had been hanged.

No one had an idea what to do about the grass in center field. The burning cross had toppled at some point, scorching the grass where it lay. Although the fragments of wood had been removed, the image of the Klan’s calling card remained seared on the turf.

We then split up into work groups, Karl and I joining the one assigned to rebuild the first-base bleachers.

I was happy finally to put my carpentry talents to use, but soon found that they weren’t as strong as I’d thought. The factories where I’d worked had paid me primarily to play ball for the company teams, so I never really had to develop industrial skills. I never had much of a chance, either; as soon as I started to learn one line of work, I’d be off to some other factory that needed a second baseman.

At least I was doing better than Karl. Within a matter of minutes he’d been taken off sawing detail when it became apparent that he might amputate his own fingers. He was doing no better trying to nail boards together.

“You hammer like lightning,” I told him. When he smiled, I added, “You never strike twice in the same spot.”

That caused him to miss another one. After he’d built up a small pile of bent nails, Karl was sent to join the children and women raking debris from the field.

I continued to work on the stands and talked with the men. I learned that some of the white workers were regulars at Cubs Park. They liked to watch good baseball and wanted the park rebuilt so they could see the games again.

There were others in the neighborhood, I suspected, who didn’t feel the same way. A number of spectators had gathered on the sidewalk and automobiles slowed down as they drove past. I wondered how long it would take before local Klansmen knew that a ballpark was rising from their ashes.

While the office and bleachers began to take shape, the Klan’s handiwork was also being erased in the outfield. Karl Landfors had figured out what to do about the cross branded on the turf. He dug up plugs of grass near the cross and replanted them in the burnt area; by the time he’d finished, the ground looked spotty, but at least the Klan trademark was barely discernible.

 

After we’d been working for a couple of hours, Jones called a break, and we all dug into the coffee, sandwiches, pies, and cookies that some women from the neighborhood had brought by.

While we were resting, the panel truck I’d hired to deliver the baseball equipment from Sportsman’s Park arrived. I was astonished to find it packed with far more gear than I had collected. Branch Rickey had donated additional bats, balls, and gloves, as well as a dozen pairs of spikes and last year’s uniforms.

A crowd gathered around as I handed out equipment from the van. Once it was all unloaded, I told Denver Jones the material was compliments of the Browns and the Cards.

The big catcher beamed. “All that’s missing,” he joked, “is a genuine ‘Mickey Rawlings’ model bat.” Then he added, “Tell them thank you. We’ll sure put this all to good use.”

One of the other Cubs’ players picked up a bat, hefted it, and took a few swings. “Can’t wait to use this,” he said.

Karl Landfors piped up, “The field’s all clear.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a progress report or a suggestion, but Jones took it as the latter. “All right,” he said. “Let’s play an inning.”

Those who wanted to play gathered around, and the Cubs’ catcher appointed two young colored boys captains. They proceeded to choose up sides, taking Denver Jones as first pick. The other Cubs’ players were next, then a brawny white man was chosen. Next were a couple more Negroes, and another large white. I realized that the kids were picking sides primarily based on size, not race. This was going to be a game between mixed teams.

As they kept picking players, passing me over, I wanted to yell out that I was a big-league ballplayer; if they kept going in descending order of size, I’d be one of the last chosen. I glanced uneasily at Karl Landfors. If he got picked ahead of me, I vowed, I would have to kill him.

To my relief, I was selected two players ahead of Karl. When both teams were rounded out, we grabbed up the equipment and took the field. We agreed to play just one inning, with each batter allowed to swing until he hit the ball.

It was a completely unremarkable game—just a bunch of men and boys playing ball and having fun. The highlight for me was hitting a solid double down the left-field line, my first base hit in this park. Karl managed to get a hit, too, which was probably the first in his life.

After the inning, we all went back to work so that soon a more competitive game could be played on the site.

 

As much as I hated to be the first to quit, I still had to play in Sportsman’s Park in the afternoon.

I went over to Denver Jones, who was working on the frame for the main building. “Sorry to go,” I said, “but I got a game today, and we’re leaving for a road trip tomorrow.”

“You done plenty,” the catcher answered. “We’re obliged for your help—and for the equipment.”

“Wish I could do more,” I said, looking around at the progress. The bleachers were almost finished, the field was all cleared of ashes and debris, and the framework of the office was coming together. It was already a striking difference from that morning. I hoped that I might have a chance to play there again when construction was completed. If only Slip Crawford could do the same, I thought sadly.

I waved to Margie to join me, then turned to Jones again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Why did you guys bring Slip Crawford in as a ringer? You already had Jimmy Bell, who could have pitched. I saw him in Indianapolis—he beat the ABCs, and even struck out Oscar Charleston. In fact, they’re calling him ‘Cool Papa’ now because of the way he handled Charleston.”

“I always knew Bell was gonna be a good one,” said Jones. “As for Crawford, we didn’t bring him in. He
asked
to play. Slip used to live here in East St. Louis until the riot, and he wanted to come back and do something for his community.”

Another carload of white men drove by. I could swear it was the same Studebaker that had passed a couple of times before. I said to Jones, “The Klan isn’t going to like seeing this. What if they come back tonight and destroy what was done today?”

“Don’t worry,” he answered confidently. “This neighborhood is being patrolled. Won’t nothing happen here again.”

I was pretty sure it wasn’t the police department that was going to be doing the patrolling.

T
he series in Cleveland was only four games, and I played a total of only three innings, with only one at bat, but I didn’t remember ever having a better road trip.

I was buoyed by the satisfaction that I’d done something positive in helping out at Cubs Park. During one of my calls to Margie from Cleveland, she told me that construction was progressing so well that the Cubs would be playing their first game in the rebuilt park on Saturday.

Also boosting my spirits was the Browns’ continued success. We’d been winning so regularly, and attracting so many fans, that Phil Ball announced plans to add thousands of bleacher seats to Sportsman’s Park to accommodate the growing crowds. He didn’t mention, but we all knew, that he also expected to need the extra seats for the World Series in October. We were consistently maintaining a several-game lead over the Yankees, and although it was still only mid-June, the team and the fans were becoming convinced that this would be the year the Browns would win a pennant for St. Louis.

I was starting to believe it myself, and even began monitoring the National League standings to predict who our opponents would be. I was pleased to see that we would most likely be facing John McGraw’s New York Giants, whose lineup included my old friend, and former Dodger, Casey Stengel.

The primary reason for my good mood, though, was Margie. I’d brought her a dozen yellow roses before leaving on the trip, and phoned her every morning and every evening while in Cleveland. From our conversations, I was optimistic that she’d agree to move back in with me soon. We hadn’t talked any more about marriage, but I would be content for a while simply to be together again, sharing a home.

 

The Browns’ train pulled into Union Station shortly before eleven o’clock Friday night. Margie had invited me to come directly to her hotel, but I decided to stop at home first. After the eight-hour trip, I wanted to wash and change into clean clothes before seeing her. One of the drawbacks of not being married yet was that I still had to pay attention to my grooming.

The taxicab made such good time to my apartment that the detour wasn’t going to set me too far behind schedule; I figured I’d be able to shower and change and be at the Jefferson Hotel around midnight.

After giving the cabby a hefty tip for his speed, I hustled to the door with my suitcase and dug into my pocket for the key. I never got it out.

I didn’t notice the sound of rustling bushes until a gruff voice barked, “Grab ‘im!” My suitcase fell to the step as my arms were pinned behind me. Then my head was covered with a coarse cloth.

I twisted and jerked, trying to get out. No luck. Then I tried the other extreme; I remained still for a moment to collect my senses and try to figure out what was going on. At least two men were holding me. Neither of them spoke, though; the only sound I heard was two nearby automobile engines suddenly roaring to life.

The same voice I’d heard before ordered, “Get ‘im to the car.”

As they started dragging me toward the sound of the engines, I resumed my struggle to get free, and yelled, “What the hell are you—”

“Shut up!” A punch to my head sent me reeling; with my eyes covered, I’d had no way to duck or brace myself.

Don’t let them get you in the car, I told myself. “Let me go!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, hoping a neighbor might hear.

Another blow to my head put an end to my yelling—it was all I could do to remain conscious. I was half-carried the rest of the way and tossed onto a backseat.

Three doors slammed shut, and the car squealed in a tight turn as it peeled away from the curb. The second car followed close behind.

Okay, now what? I remained quiet and motionless, listening for any clue that might tell me who I was with or why I’d been grabbed or where I was going. The only thing I could tell for sure was that this was no friendly prank.

Still encased in the sack, almost gagging on the damp burlap, I oriented myself as best I could to determine my exact position inside the vehicle. Then I waited.

When the car slowed for a turn, I reached out blindly for where I thought the door handle would be. It wasn’t there. As I fumbled to find it, I was yanked away from the door before I could open it.

“You’ll be out soon enough,” said a smug voice.

It was only another five minutes before we pulled to a stop, and the driver killed the engine. The car behind us did the same.

Now I struggled to stay inside the automobile as the men tried to drag me out by my feet. I figured whatever they wanted me to do, it was in my best interest to do the opposite.

It was another losing struggle. In a matter of minutes, I was lying facedown on the ground, the heel of a boot pressed on the back of my neck.

Through the sack I heard the repeated rustling of cloth, then a voice I hadn’t heard before drawled, “Everybody ready?” The others must have indicated that they were, because he went on, “Good. Get him on his feet.”

I was immediately pulled upright, and the burlap was ripped from my head, scraping the bruised skin of my face.

The sight that greeted me made me wish my eyes were still covered. Six men garbed in the white robes and masked hoods of the Ku Klux Klan stood around me. Two of them gripped my arms, and two others carried rifles. In the moonlight, they all looked like ghosts. If they were trying to throw a scare into me, they’d succeeded thoroughly. I only hoped that scaring me was all they wanted to do.

Glancing away from them, I saw we were in a dark, wooded area of what I assumed to be Forest Park. The cars, I noticed, were two black sedans, pulled off the dirt road, near a giant elm.

The man with the drawl said as if pronouncing sentence, “Mickey Rawlings, you are a traitor. The only thing worse than an uppity nigger is a white man who betrays his own race.”

I couldn’t tell from his statement what he meant by “betrayal.” Was it the fact that I’d helped rebuild Cubs Park? Or did he mean my association with Franklin Aubury? Or maybe it referred to my inquiries about the Klan and its possible role in the lynching of Slip Crawford. But I didn’t much care which of these “betrayals” he meant right then, and I wasn’t going to ask. All I was thinking about was how I could get away. Try as I might, I couldn’t break the grips of those who were holding me.

Momentarily giving up, I relaxed again to conserve my strength.

The Klansman in charge drawled even more slowly, perhaps enjoying the taste of the words, when he next ordered, “Get the rope.”

My knees buckled; if not for the men holding me, I’d have collapsed. I’m going to be
lynched?
I almost blurted, “You can’t!” But a mental image of Slip Crawford hanging from a backstop flashed before me, arguing back, Yes, they can.

One of the Klansmen got a length of rope from the back of the second car.

This isn’t a swamp in Georgia, I thought. They’re going to lynch a white man in the city of St. Louis?

Rage suddenly coursed through me, and I twisted and squirmed again. My goal wasn’t escape. I wanted to pull the hoods off these bastards—if they were going to kill me, they were going to have to do it with me looking at their faces, not hiding behind masks.

“Tie him up!”

Still trying and failing to grasp one of the masks, I was dragged to the elm and slammed facefirst into the trunk. My arms were extended to encircle the tree, and my hands tied together. I started to hug the tree tightly, thinking that they couldn’t hang me if they couldn’t pry me off the tree trunk.

When they ripped the coat and shirt off my back, I realized that lynching wasn’t their intent. At least not their immediate intent.

A crack like a rifle report split the air. I twisted my head to see the group’s leader brandishing a bullwhip. “You associate with niggers,” he said, “you get treated like a nigger.”

The next crack of the whip tore into my bare shoulder. The one after that stabbed the base of my spine.

Egged on by the others, he continued the whipping, taking a long pause between each lash to let the pain fully register.

My goals were twofold: One was to stay alive, and the other was to deny them the satisfaction of hearing me cry out. As he kept snapping the whip, I bit the inside of my mouth so hard I tasted blood.

The other Klansmen grew quiet; I probably wasn’t giving them the fun time they’d expected. Eventually one of them grumbled, “Is he dead?”

“Nah,” huffed the one with the whip. “He’s still flinching. See?”

Another lash came, and I tried to remain completely motionless. I couldn’t avoid a slight flinch, but I still remained silent.

“That should be enough to teach him a lesson.” The Klansman walked up to me and growled in my ear, “Tonight we’re letting you off with a warning. If we got to talk to you again, you won’t survive it.”

He headed back to the others, and one of them asked, “Should we cut him loose?”

“Nah. Come sunup, somebody’ll find him. Let them do it.”

There were some laughs, then car doors slammed, and they roared off into the night.

I let my muscles gradually relax, and took slow, deep breaths. The panic and fear began to subside. With the immediate threat over, I took a sensory inventory of my body, trying to assess the damage. The worst, I knew, was to my back: My skin burned from the lashing, and electric spasms jolted my legs and spine whenever I moved the wrong way. I could also feel warm blood trickling down my back; the waistband of my trousers was soaked with it. The only other injuries were minor, as far as I could tell, including a bruised face that stung where salty tears had flowed into the scrapes.

Okay, now to get out of here. I was not going to wait until sunup. Oddly, it was the idea of someone finding me this way that bothered me most. To be tied up and whipped was
humiliating,
like I’d been punished for doing something wrong.

I began to pull at the ropes, trying to break them. I kept yanking harder and harder, but all I accomplished was to strain my shoulders and cut off the circulation to my hands.

As I struggled, I was subjected to new torment: Flies and mosquitoes lit upon me and began to feast on my bloodied back.

Pulling hadn’t worked, so I next tried going the opposite way. I pressed my chest into the biting bark of the tree in an attempt to put some slack in the rope. That worked; I was able to get my hands close enough together to pluck at the knots.

The picking became more urgent as insects buzzed around my head, crawled over my skin, and dug into every open wound. When the rope finally slipped free, I didn’t think I’d ever felt a greater sense of relief.

I collected my tattered clothes from the ground, not wanting to leave any evidence of what had happened to me. Holding what was left of my jacket around me, I began the long, agonizing walk home.

When I got to the apartment, my suitcase was still on the steps. I left it there and went inside to call Margie.

I told her briefly what had happened, and after a few questions to determine how badly I was hurt, she promised to be right over.

After hanging up, I lay belly-down on the sofa. Then I pulled one of the pillows to my mouth and screamed into it. I kept screaming, again and again, sometimes from pain, more often from rage.

 

Margie didn’t arrive alone. Despite the hour, she had persuaded the hotel doctor from the Jefferson to come with her.

The brisk young doctor examined me closely, and determined there was little he could do. “A few of these cuts need stitches,” he said, “but there’s not enough good skin left around them to sew into. Best just to keep it all clean and hope it heals okay on its own.”

The two of them then began to clean the wounds, Margie gently working on my face, and the doctor cleaning the more serious cuts on my back. As they worked, the doctor asked me what had happened.

“Some guys whipped me,” I said.

“I didn’t think it was a dog bite. Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not much to tell them.” I hadn’t recognized any of the men’s voices, and would be unable to give any more identification than “six Klansmen in two dark sedans.”

The doctor said, “I’ll give you some bandages and a poultice for your back. It needs to be changed several times a day.”

“I’ll do that,” Margie volunteered. “Show me what to do.”

He instructed her on how to prepare the poultice and apply the bandages, then made the first application himself to demonstrate. Then he gave me several days’ worth of sleeping powders so that the pain wouldn’t keep me up nights.

After the doctor left, Margie removed my clothes and gently gave me a thorough sponge bath on the areas that weren’t bandaged. When she finished, she sat at the end of the sofa by my feet, and I could sense that she was staring at my back.

Suddenly Margie said in a choked voice, “I’ll be right back.”

I heard her run to the bathroom, then I heard her start to cry. The sound of her sobbing pained me far more than the lashing had.